


Dark Horse

by Kikithehousemoose



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M, TAKE THE TITLE WITH A GRAIN OF SALT IT DOES NOT MENTION THE SONG AT ALL, i dont even know if im actually gonna write this its kind of a sudden thing, intense flashbacks technically, mentions of Bruce, mentions of clint, mentions of steve - Freeform, selective amnesia warning if that is a warning, the only body stuff is mention of mutilation from the training/dancing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-14
Updated: 2015-05-14
Packaged: 2018-03-30 11:39:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3935425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kikithehousemoose/pseuds/Kikithehousemoose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Natasha Romanoff has many lifetimes of secrets. One of them is a living, breathing person, and sometimes he's the only thing about her past that she can't let go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dark Horse

**Author's Note:**

> {{ A spontaneous break from Mostly Me. I was going through a Postmodern Jukebox playlist and their Dark Horse cover inspired me. I KNOW, Black Widow would have been a more obvious choice, but just listen to the song and you'll hopefully see why I just had to make a scene out of it: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KBj1WyDCJ9o 
> 
> Based off of a scene I once roleplayed with someone, I think. If it was real, I'll try to find them to give them credit. No idea if this will have any pre or sequels. }}

For as sharp as she was, there were times when Natasha lived in a haze.

It wasn't uncommon for anyone in the team to be acting strange one day and just go off for a while before coming back, never saying a word. Usually they didn't talk, and usually no one had to ask. They all had their demons, it was part of what made them superheroes, but after the fiasco with Ultron it seemed that the past was catching up to everyone and refusing to let go. There were so few of them left: there was Steve, who could never be moved from a mission once he took to it; there was Maria Hill, who wasn't technically an Avenger but was just as important to the re-building of SHIELD as any of them; there was technically Fury, though he didn't come around often and words didn't need to be exchanged, so most of the time he was counted absent; and there was her. That was it. The four of them, only two of them ever going out into the field. Everyone else from the original team was gone, fighting off their own monsters now that the common battle was done. For all her experience with suffering and recovery, Natasha swore that she wouldn't be another one to leave.

It was probably that conflict of consciousness that caused her to conveniently forget all the times she left to find him. At night, not every night but on some, she would let her guard down; something in her would slip, and she would fall,fall down the slippery slope of her memories that she couldn't sort through, fall into the despair of all the conflicts she hid from herself. She would be watching herself, 10, 13, 15, 19. Every snap of an ankle, every memory wipe, every drug-induced catatonia, every gunshot that was even slightly off-target, beat and broke at her resolve. She stood there, paralyzed, and went through every bad part of her childhood, and when she woke up she would be somewhere in the city, in some alley or mall that she hadn't known existed. And instead of going back, she would search. For him. Because even though she never remembered seeing him, she knew that he was here. Somewhere.

Always, she would find him. In an alley, in a dumpster, in a closed shop or a food court or an out-of-the-way bush in a park. At first glance, he seemed like any other downtrodden homeless veteran, watching the world pass uncaringly with glossy eyes, tensing and spitting at whatever startled him. The part of her that was awake pitied him. None of this had been fair to any of them, but he had gotten the worst end possible. He had been pulled into war, cast into his best friend's shadow, nearly killed, tortured, brainwashed, stripped of every sense of dignity and identity and independence he'd had left, and then when it was all over and Earth's mightiest heroes got rid of all the baddies that had wronged him, he had been left with no one. The Avengers, as broken as they were, had each other. The other victims of HYDRA's experiments were being rescued either way, whether that meant being redeemed with heroism or killed out of mercy. James Yasha Bucky Buchanan Barnes had no one, not even himself. Natasha's heart pitied him.

He recognized her now. It was odd. Yasha, The Winter Soldier, that was who she had come to know, and that was when he didn't feel for her. It was only when every identity he had was shattered, even his false safety blanket of a blank-minded assassin, that he was able to see her and feel for her and yearn for her. At first, it had been quite the spectacle-- he did not know what he felt. He was enraged by her and in awe of her. He wanted to kill her and begged her forgiveness. He felt what he thought was love for her and yet when he looked at her he was disappointed and ashamed. Now, when she found him, it was automatic: he would clutch her hands and kiss them, he would stand and bow and ask if he could have this dance.

He always could.

So they would dance, Bucky in the present and Natasha in the past,both of them with a haze in their eyes and a moan just under their lips. They would hold each other and sway; they would turn out at arms length, nearly letting go of each other, but always coming back. There was no vocal communication: they always knew each others tempo, what they were going to do next, what to hold and where to put their feet. He would tilt her like a proper lady; she would fly over him and flip over and around him until they both lost track of where she started. They would go simple, back to swing, large loose movements that very nearly resembled battle. They would get rigid in their joints and go back to ballet, testing the limits of how contradictingly still and easy their bodies could be. They would be close to each other and sway back and forth like they were in a ballroom, their lips meeting, their hands exploring each other to see if they still knew the geography. They would dance in each others eyes, in each others skin, and she could never tell whether or not they had sex, because it had the same effect on her. It was her rawest way of loving him, saying everything and never having to speak. It was dancing with him that Natalia was able to relive and let go of her deep red past.

He would dip her and trail his mouth up her neck, whispering to her in broken Russian about how much of a goddess she was, about how she was the most woman anyone could be, how she didn't need the Red Room to make her perfect. Her head would get close to his chest and she would trace his body, telling him how gentle he was, how he was more of a lover than anyone she'd ever had, she would tell him memories that he didn't have, and he would tell her something he had learned about the world. And there they poured their hearts and souls out to each other, never remembering any of it the next day. The physical traces of the night would still be there, but mentally Natasha always came back clean, and for a few days felt as though she had no burdens or problems at all. 

Perhaps that was how it should be.


End file.
